Diminished
by LadyRhiyana
Summary: [ON HIATUS] Draco is dead. Ginny Malfoy is left with nothing but memories, the estate, and her much diminished father in law.
1. Default Chapter

A/N – An expansion of an idea. This is not a romance fic per se, in that the characters don't meet, fall in love, get married and live happily ever after. It's an exploration of a very strange relationship, and how it might possibly evolve over time.

Disclaimer – I don't own Harry Potter, any of the canon characters or concepts. Don't sue me.

* * *

Diminished

* * *

**(I)**

* * *

Slytherin or not, Malfoy or not, Ginny had loved her husband. It had not made for a smooth or convenient relationship for either of them, but their love had been enough to carry them through some very bad times – they had even dared to dream of a happier life, someday, after the war…

And then one stray curse had ended it all.

A sniper, who could so easily have shifted his focus to Ron, or Moody, or any of the others who had been there, standing beside him. But instead, he'd picked Draco.

Ginny had been staying at the Burrow when the news came. She'd moved out years before, when she'd married Draco, but in such dangerous times the Weasley family tended to group together for safety and comfort. There had been a small celebration, a birthday party perhaps, when the black-clad Aurors had come to the front door…

The envelope had been edged in black, and somehow she'd known even before she'd unfolded and read the letter. _Dear Mrs. Malfoy, we regret to inform you that…_

After that moment in time, things began to blur, and she had only vague recollections and images of the next few hours – her voice, almost unrecognizable, babbling in denial; her father's familiar, warm arms; her mother's brisk, no-nonsense scolding…

And then the acrid taste of a sleeping potion, and then nothing.

She had fallen apart. Strong, sure, pragmatic and capable Ginny Malfoy, daughter of down-to-earth Molly Weasley, lost herself in a black fog of depression from which neither her friends nor her family could coax or even drag her. She lost all interest in food, but spent most of her day huddling in the bed, feeling sorry for herself. She trailed through the house in her nightgown, her eyes dark and empty and hopeless –

Until, at the funeral, she came face to face with Lucius Malfoy…

* * *

They had seen fit to allow him to attend his son's funeral.

Evidently he had Potter to thank for that. Lucius couldn't decide whether the boy was entirely too softhearted for his own good, or far crueler than he had given him credit for – this momentary break in a lifetime of imprisonment would be forever associated with Draco's death. It seemed fitting that the weather should be filthy, that it should be windy and miserably cold, and raining unpleasantly – it fit his mood perfectly, and somehow lifted it with bleak ironic amusement.

They had told him he would never see the sky again.

So he stood there, bareheaded, face upturned without even the simplest of spells to ward off the rain, and allowed himself to enjoy the sensation.

There was a shocked gasp from behind him, quickly smothered – he opened his eyes and turned towards it, coming face to face with a haggard, white-faced ghost.

Her hand flew up to her mouth in shock. "Oh!" she breathed. "You're not…"

He eyed her dismay cynically. No, he wasn't Draco. No, he wasn't the bright, courageous youth who had chosen integrity over prudence, love over material advancement. No, he wasn't the man this woman hoped to see, with her heart so openly revealed in her eyes…

He inclined his head. "My apologies, Ginevra, if I have caused offence."

"No," she said hastily, in some confusion, "it's just… It's just that you look so like him. Just for a moment I thought…"

"Yes," he said bluntly. "I know."

"I'm sorry," she said, retreating backwards. "I'll leave you alone, then…"

He watched her go, and then turned his face back up to the sky.

* * *

Alastor Moody watched Lucius Malfoy and wandered just how much of his own life had been defined in some way by the other man. They were roughly the same age, Moody being some five years older, but Lucius had begun his career early – rumour put his initiation in his fifteenth year, when he'd still been at Hogwarts – when Moody had still been an Auror in training.

There had been three main periods of Moody's life defined by Lucius Malfoy – the first was the first Rising, when two young, brilliant men had been at the forefront of their respective struggles, and there had been nothing that they couldn't have done, in the glory and immortality of their youth.

The second period was the fifteen year peace, where Lucius Malfoy had grown in power and influence, and Moody had grown eccentric and paranoid, his warning voice increasingly shrill and hysterical compared to Malfoy's smooth, mellifluous talk of prosperity and a new era.

And the third had been the past nine years, when one man had languished in Azkaban and Moody had fought inferior opponents, who had none of Malfoy's brilliance and all of Voldemort's crude cruelty. For the first time in his life, Moody had felt old, keenly aware that his golden youth had been more than twenty-five years ago – watching the oddly diminished man standing out in the rain, it was easy to believe.

Lucius Malfoy had always seemed so invincible; it was jarring to see lines around his eyes, white streaks in the pale blonde hair, and the small, unmistakable signs of aging.

But such was the fate of all men, even Malfoys.

"Sir?" a quiet, faded voice spoke from behind him. "My brother said you wanted to speak to me."

He turned his mind from Lucius Malfoy to young Ginevra Weasley, who had married the man's only son. It had certainly been an agreeable surprise when young Malfoy had decided to become an Auror – the boy had had a definite aptitude for it, a legacy from his father no doubt.

And now the boy was dead, and all his brilliance with him – only Lucius was left now, and Lucius' brilliance had burned itself down to ashes…

"Sir?" the voice prompted him, concerned this time. "Charlie said…"

"Yes, Mrs Malfoy, I heard you the first time," he said gruffly. He turned to look at her. "The Ministry has given you, as Draco Malfoy's widow, sole possession and control of the Malfoy estates."

She looked stunned. "But…" her eyes turned to Lucius.

"His claim to the estate was forfeit when he was convicted and imprisoned. It passed to his only son and heir, and in the absence of another such it passes to you."

"And when I die?" she asked, stunned.

He shrugged. "When you die, it will be turned over to the Ministry."

He could sense Malfoy's attention to their conversation, and took a moment to savour the thought of the Malfoy estate finally in Ministry hands – the oldest pureblood House and estate in Britain finally succumbing to the inevitability of change and progress. They had been locked in the Dark Ages long enough.

* * *


	2. II

Disclaimer – I don't own any of the canon characters or concepts. Don't sue.

* * *

**II**

* * *

They released him into her custody.

Quite what she was supposed to do with him she didn't know. He was a far more powerful and experienced wizard than she, and a Death Eater to boot – what was she supposed to do if he suddenly decided to kill her?

Moody assured her, smiling quite strangely, that Lucius Malfoy would do his utmost to keep her alive for as long as possible.

A comforting thought.

But what was truly comforting was the silence and the emptiness of Malfoy Manor, when compared to the overcrowded Burrow, which exuded enough life, vitality and energy to drive her mad, if she was forced to stay there any longer than she had to. It was not home anymore, that cheerful reckless exuberance – home was (or had been) cool, soundless amusement; wordless understanding rather than spats and arguments at the top of her lungs.

The Manor House echoed not with the shouts of living, breathing family, but with whispers of past Malfoy glories – it was an empty, brooding house now, a symbol of centuries of power and intrigue and dominance, now reduced to housing only two.

In the gallery, the portraits of Draco's ancestors watched her with cool grey Malfoy eyes, calculating, measuring, evaluating – Brandon, the very first; Varis, who had fought off the Roman army; Julian, who had seen the value in a wizarding school and given Salazar Slytherin support in recruiting pureblood students; another whose name escaped her who had steered the House through the chaos of the Conquest…

Twenty-five centuries of power and influence stared down at her from the walls. The very stones of the Manor exuded it, and there was nowhere on this estate that was not shadowed – protected, some said – by the overpowering influence of House Malfoy.

Soon, it would all come to an end.

Some days – the worst days – she could not decide whether that was a good thing or not.

* * *

"Mrs Malfoy, you cannot continue to ignore this situation." Phineas Finch, fiddling nervously with his wire rimmed spectacles, avoided her eyes as he spoke. "You are the legal owner of the Malfoy estate; you have a responsibility to maintain it. And that means that you must take an interest in its running –"

"I don't have to take an interest in anything, Finch – Draco never cared about the estate."

"With respect, Mrs Malfoy," Finch polished his spectacles compulsively, "Master Draco did not have the chance to take over the running of the estate. But this is a different time, now, and we are at peace – in war, benign neglect may have been permissible, but in peacetime it is a death sentence –"

"A death sentence? What the hell are you talking about," she began angrily, but he interrupted her.

"Landowning is an anachronism, ma'am. Huge estates may have spelled money and power a hundred or so years ago, but today they lose money hand over fist – they are only rendered feasible and profitable by the family's investments and businesses. If they go under, then so too does the estate – you cannot afford to ignore the finances forever." He replaced his spectacles and turned his attention to the ledgers and accounts before him. "Now, if you will just turn your attention to…"

Ginny cut him off, rising from her chair and slamming her fist down on the desk. "How many times do I have to say that I don't care about the bloody estate? Can't you just leave me in peace? If you care so much about the estate, then bloody well look after it yourself!"

She stormed out of the study, leaving the ancient man of affairs to find his own way out of the Manor. His repeated pleas that she take up _her _responsibilities were enough to drive her mad – didn't they understand that she had absolutely no interest in such things? Worse than that – she had no aptitude for it.

She had been raised in a house that stood on no more than half an acre of land. In the Burrow, managing – juggling – their finances had meant ensuring they had enough to feed and educate seven children; here, on one of the largest wizarding estates in Britain, financial management meant a labyrinthine tangle of investments, funds, hidden accounts and a business empire the extent of which she could not even begin to guess.

She had tried, once, to make sense of it, but it had been like trying to read hieroglyphics without the Rosetta Stone. Lucius had only laughed at her, his lazy, remote amusement all too plain.

There were times, dark times, when she spied him in the distance, his back turned, and she would mistake him for Draco – a wild leap of hope and joy would lift her, she would begin to smile, and her faith in her husband would be confirmed –

_He's the Malfoy Lord, and he's cunning enough to survive anything, strong enough to take care of everything, and so powerful that not even Death itself could overcome him…_

And then the illusion would pass, and it would be Lucius she watched, Lucius who was still alive while Draco was dead. And her heart would break afresh.

* * *

TBC… 


	3. III

A/N – I knew that I would get a rather mixed response to this fic – Lucius/Ginny being much more controversial than Draco/Ginny – but I've wanted to do this for a while. Thanks for trusting me.

Disclaimer – I don't own Lucius Malfoy. Worst luck. Any medical quackings that occur in this chapter are of my own imagining.

* * *

Chapter 3

* * *

Narcissa had held all of the normal aristocratic pureblood disdain for house elves. She hadn't hated them, or held them in revulsion or contempt as some others did, but she thought them beneath her notice, only paying attention to them when the normal running of the household was interrupted. Her attitude was not unusual – it could be found in pureblood drawing rooms all over Britain – it was simply the way things were. 

But Ginevra – perhaps because of her family's poverty, perhaps because she had simply been raised differently – treated them as individuals, actually thanking them for their services, inquiring after their health and welfare, calling them by their names, or at least the names that they would willingly give out to humans.

There had been a time, once, when house elves had not been anywhere near as benign and ineffectual as they were now – once, so the legends said, they had actually been a serious threat to human wizards, before they had been crushed and subjugated under one of Lucius' more ruthless ancestor's heels…

But either Ginevra had no idea of their dark history, or else she did not care. She treated them as equals, and they repaid her with slavish devotion. So when Libby, the leader of the house elves at the Manor, (Lucius supposed she held a rank equivalent to housekeeper) solemnly informed him that 'the Mistress' was ill and refused to get out of bed, he knew that they must be seriously concerned about her health.

What else would motivate them to approach him?

Sighing, he stood up and gestured for Libby to lead him to Ginevra's bedchamber. She had been given the rooms belonging to the Manor's mistress, that Narcissa had once held, and Lucius had moved into another set of rooms elsewhere. He knocked on the door, opening it cautiously when there was no response. Inside, it was dark, the thick velvet curtains were drawn against the morning light, and silent – the only sound was the soft susurration of faint, regular breathing. So, she was alive at least. The bed curtains were drawn, blocking out even more of the light, and he gestured to Libby once again.

The house elf drew open the bed curtains, revealing white silk sheets and tumbled red-gold hair. He tried not to notice that the youngest Weasley had become a beautiful woman, but focused instead on objective analysis – he was no healer, but in his Death Eater days he had learned to treat his own injuries, not willing to trust to the discretion of doctor-patient confidentiality.

She was breathing easily and regularly. He checked her pulse, gently and impartially grasping her wrist under Libby's eagle eye, and it was firm and steady. She was a little pale, but she had been pale ever since the funeral, and had refused to go outside into the sun where she might have regained some of her colour. He quickly waved his wand over her, scanning her as well as he knew how, but there were no obvious alarms – the only thing he could see wrong with her was her continued sleep.

And then he saw the bottle on the bedside table.

Libby saw it too, and her eyes widened; she snatched it up and sniffed at it, and held it out to him with an exclamation of dismay. "Dreamless Sleep!" she wailed, her huge eyes wide and brimming with dismay. "Mistress is taking triple-strength Dreamless Sleep!"

So she was, although only Merlin knew where she'd found it – she must have raided the specially locked and reinforced potions cupboard in the secret room, or else Draco had told her the combination before he died. The recommended dose of such strong Dreamless Sleep potion was less than a thimbleful, diluted in two hundred and fifty milliliters of water – by the looks of it, she'd drunk the whole, concentrated bottle at once. Lucius sighed. A minute amount would aid in a pleasant night's sleep free of ghosts, nightmares and phantoms. A whole bottle would send an elephant into a hundred year coma from which it would never wake…

Libby began banging her head against the bedside table. Automatically, he restrained her, not wishing to see her strangely authoritative manner debased by such foolishness – and besides, he couldn't think with such a racket.

"Libby," he said quietly, commandingly enough that he diverted her attention away from punishing herself, "fetch some of Professor Snape's supply of concentrated digitalis and some of his restorative potions and bring them down to the pond in the gardens. Get some of the other elves out there with towels and warming spells." With firm commands to follow, Libby regained her normal formidable composure, and even looked a little embarrassed to think that she'd almost made a fool of herself like a normal, common house elf.

Even among house elves, there was a rigid hierarchy. House elves in positions of authority did not act like those who followed them. And, in the same vein, what Lucius would tolerate in Libby – her protectiveness, her occasional disrespect – would be swiftly punished in a lesser elf like Dobby…

As she scurried off to do his bidding, filled with fire and determination to save her mistress, Lucius looked down at his young, impulsive, Gryfifndoric daughter-in-law, and wondered what on earth she'd been thinking. For the last two months she'd been grieving and moping, wandering through the house like a fragile, ethereal ghost, a shadow of her former self. He'd seen her file, knew that she was a strong, fearsomely competent Auror, respected of by all her peers, even that madman Moody. Or she had been, before Draco's death.

But surely even Weasleys did not indulge in such excessive displays of grief? Had they no pride? Weren't they told not to wear their hearts on their sleeves, and that one had to retain one's composure at all times? Draco may have disregarded many of his teachings, but he doubted he would find this indulgence any more pleasing than Lucius did. Quite irrationally, it angered him that this fierce, strong woman would so let herself down.

Perhaps that was why he decided to shock her out of it, rather than easing her through it as he might have done, had he been in a gentler mood.

He scooped her up off the bed into his arms, even more displeased to find just how little she weighed. She was wearing a thick white cotton nightgown – shades of Molly Weasley, no doubt – and as he made his way through the house towards the gardens outside, the fluttering white drew attention like a banner and they gained a furtive following, house elves who had heard Libby's news and wished to see their mistress healed. He ignored them, striding out into the sunlight, through Narcissa's carefully cultivated gardens and flowerbeds, and towards a small, perfectly situated pond reflecting a drooping willow and aching blue sky.

Libby was there, potions in hand, waiting impatiently for him to arrive. He laid his burden down on the ground, took the digitalis off Libby, uncorked the bottle and poured two very, very careful drops into the bottle of restorative potion… That done, he lifted Ginevra's head and shoulders up, opened her mouth and pinched her nostrils shut, and poured the potion down her throat, stroking it, forcing her to swallow it all.

And then he picked her up again, waded into the pond, opened his arms and dropped her into the water. It was early November, and the water was freezing cold, and she was wearing nothing but a flimsy nightgown.

No one had ever accused him of being overlysensitive, gentle or compassionate...

Some thirty seconds after his impromptu dunking, long enough that he was beginning to wonder if he hadn't been a bit too rough, there was a thrashing and a great disturbance underneath the water. A few seconds later Ginevra broke through the surface, coughing and spluttering, breath heaving and choking, and turned her eyes onto him, recognizing him as the author of this sudden shock.

She was sopping wet and bedraggled, her hair was wild and tangled and festooned with pond weeds, and her nightgown was completely transparent and stuck to her like a second skin. But her glare should have incinerated him…

He kept his face impassive through force of long, long practice, but he could do nothing about the laughter he knew danced wickedly in his eyes – hopefully she did not know him well enough, yet, to recognize his untrustworthy humour. Soberly, he shrugged out of his over robe and extended it to her, taking care to remain out of reach so she would not try and pull him in as well.

With great dignity, somewhat ruined by her intermittent shivering, she took the robe out of his hands and wrapped it around herself, relaxing into the heat of the warming spell he'd thoughtfully placed on it for her. She did not acknowledge him in any other way, but clambered out of the pond and started on her way back to the manor, her back rigidly straight and her head held ridiculously high. Libby cast him one long, fulminating glance, and then followed after her, and once they were out of sight he allowed himself the luxury of one brief, extremely wicked smile.

* * *

Later that night, as they sat together at the dinner table, Lucius made his one and only reference to the incident. 

"My dear Ginevra," he said absently, helping himself to a portion of roasted duck, "I do trust that you have had your fill of self-indulgent grief?"

She put her fork down slowly and turned to him. "I won't try any more sleeping potions, if that is what you mean."

"That is very good to know, my dear, but that was not quite what I meant." He gave her his full attention, no longer the amused tormentor who had dropped her into the lake, but once again the Malfoy patriarch. "When will we see an end to this moping self-pity of yours? You cannot lock yourself away at the manor forever. There are other, far more important matters, as Finch was trying to tell you last week."

Automatically, she stiffened. He knew she didn't want the responsibility of running the estate, and not because she was reluctant to take on such a difficult task, either. No, she was not afraid of challenge, but of the thought that she would be left taking care of Draco's legacy for the rest of her life. She was only – twenty-three, twenty-four – and would probably see another hundred years out before old age took her. Lucius could understand the reluctance to have the estate hanging around her neck – he had felt exactly the same when his father died – but more than that, it was as if she did not feel that she deserved control of the estate. And that he could not sympathise with.

"There are any number of others who would like to get their hands on the estate," she said challengingly, lifting her chin and staring him straight in the eye. "I'm sure they would be glad to take responsibility of it for me."

"They will take responsibility from you," he corrected mildly, not reacting to the poorly veiled threat. "Is that what Draco would have wanted?"

She paled at the unexpected viciousness. And then said, in a small, sullen voice, "No."

"But of course," he went on unheedingly, "this is not about what Draco wanted; this is about what you want. And you want to shuffle off your responsibilities to someone else because you find them too hard, too painful."

She did not answer, but he could see her wavering, see his imminent victory in her eyes. He remembered the last, shouted words she'd thrown at Finch before she stormed off in a huff last week.

"_If you care so much about the estate, then bloody well look after it yourself!"_

He could also see them running through her mind, through those dark, expressive, almost embarrassingly transparent eyes. And then…yes.

"I don't want to run the estate," she began tentatively. "But you controlled it for more than twenty years, didn't you? Can't you…can't you take control again?"

He shrugged. "Unfortunately, I am a convicted criminal…" he raised an ironic brow. Her face fall, but he continued on, careful not to spook her at this vital moment. "If I were to take control for you, it would all have to be done in your name…"

Temptation warred with her ingrained, fearful memories of him and with the developing trust she'd developed since she'd begun living at the manor, where he'd been so mild and indifferent, rather than menacing and ominous as he'd been in her youth. Her reluctance and her feelings of doubt and inadequacy won, and she looked up at him solemnly and asked him to take over control of the estate again, at least until she felt that she could handle it herself…

He smiled, mildly, reassuringly, taking care to hide his teeth, and assured that he would do his best.

* * *


	4. IV

A/N – Yes, I have decided it. This story will contain a relationship between Lucius and Ginny, between father-in-law and daughter-in-law, mildly incestuous though it may be. I've decided to take a little step out on the limb; I've been a bit cautious since the Stolen Generation and the Witch Hunt.

Disclaimer – I don't own Harry Potter or any of the canon characters or concepts.

* * *

Diminished IV

* * *

Time passed, slowly, and the outside world moved on. Harry Potter finally lived up to the wizarding world's expectations and defeated Voldemort; the Aurors took care of the rest of the Death Eaters. Wizarding England rejoiced just as wildly as it had in 1981, and the subsequent witch hunts for Death Eaters and their sympathizers were every bit as savage.

But Ginny had no interest in such momentous events. Safe behind the sheltering, timeless walls of Malfoy Manor, her grief was coming to a natural, inevitable end – she still mourned Draco, but not with her former excessive grief. Now, she could recall him and the time they spent together with a bittersweet, rueful smile, and she was almost to the point where she could face life without him. She could even face his portrait – Caius Draconis Malfoy, forever frozen in time at fifteen years of age – without being swamped by renewed grief and regret.

And through all this long, painful period of transition, there was one unexpected source of strength and support. Lucius was hardly the man to express concern and sympathy for her loss, or even to extend understanding or an offer of comfort. Ginny had a family for that – a warm, supportive, argumentative family who would back her without question no matter what she did. But he seemed to know, instinctively, whenever the grief was blackest and most smothering, and would distract her in his cool, understated manner, infuriating her with a few well-chosen comments to which she never failed to rise, or tossing out intriguing crumbs that would lead to an abstract, hypothetical discussion of completely irrelevant matters.

How had he learned of her delight in debating irrelevant trivialities? Fred and George had introduced her to it, but the rest of her family were too practical, too grounded; when he was in the right mood, Lucius would occasionally engage with her mock-seriously in his light, least serious tone, over whether or not the great goblin leader Krull the Magnificent – who had so nearly succeeded in uniting the ravening goblin hordes – had indeed been poisoned by his chief concubine and his most trusted general, and what might have happened had he survived. Or perhaps the topic would be muggle poetry, and just what that fellow Coleridge had meant in some of his opium induced ravings.

The topic didn't matter, but the light amusement and mental stimulation did. She was not Hermione, had never pretended to the older girl's intellectual abilities. But then, Lucius' strengths did not lie in academia, either – he was a manipulator, a web spinner, a puppet-master who could, if he chose, compel anyone to dance to his tune – with or without their knowledge. There were times when she forgot this one essential fact, when she forgot that he had been the one to destroy her childhood innocence, and in those times – guilty, secret pleasures, where she laughed with him and enjoyed his attention – she was almost content.

* * *

Alastor Moody did not like Gringotts. There were two main reasons for this, the first being that he had an instinctive distrust of goblins, despising them as mercenary, miserly, completely and utterly untrustworthy, and even more paranoid than he was. The second reason was that Gringotts was a glorified, fortified monument to money and everything that followed in its wake – greed, ambition, jealousy and distrust. Money was the ultimate corruptor, tainting and debasing honour, turning good men into mercenaries and making bad men worse.

However, not even he could deny that Gringotts was a vital part of wizarding society, and that nobody truly wanted to see the goblins choose sides. Moody could understand that, even if he didn't like it. What stuck in his throat was their complete lack of scruples - they didn't care where the money came from, or what was done with it once it was withdrawn, so long as they got their fees.

He looked down at the paperwork in front of him, a surveillance report on the movements of Phineas Finch, who was the Malfoy family's sole contact with the world outside his estate. It was Finch who carried out their – _his – _commands in the real world, and in trailing him, Moody hoped to gain an indication of what Lucius was plotting, lying low so peacefully and law-abidingly at the Manor.

There were those who thought his constant interest in Lucius Malfoy's movements was an extravagant, useless obsession, and his hatred an outdated relic of the first Rising. There were those who were willing to believe Lucius Malfoy defeated, with no further interest in intrigue – surely, they said, now that Draco and Narcissa were dead, he will be content to live the rest of his life in peace…?

But they had never truly known Lucius Malfoy. Diminished he may be, but never defeated; a little battered but never broken. And this report proved it – for the last few months Finch had made weekly visits to the Manor, and immediately after each visit had gone to Gringotts, no doubt to pass on his employer's instructions.

When Malfoy had been convicted and sent to Azkaban, Fudge had sent in a team of investigators to determine the extent of his investments and to evaluate the prospect of Ministry seizure of Malfoy assets. Draco had managed to thwart that, regaining title and control to all the family assets, but the investigators had been stunned by their glimpse of the range and complexity of his business arrangements. Ginevra Malfoy had no experience in running a business, let alone such a complicated financial maze – it was definitely not her instructions that Finch was passing onto the bank...

Instructions that had old Griphook rubbing his hands together with glee.

Moody scowled grimly. He knew. There was no need to tell him, because he knew instinctively thatthebastardhad once more landed on his feet.

* * *

"Why is Malfoy so concerned about the estate?" Shacklebolt asked Moody, absently staring out of the small, grubby window of his cramped office onto Diagon Alley below. "Another hundred years and it'll be out of his control anyway."

He did not ask why Moody was so concerned. All those who worked with the old man did so understanding if not necessarily accepting his eccentricities – not the least of which was his almost obsessive hatred and suspicion of Lucius Malfoy.

"You'd think so – but he's up to something, I can feel it…" Moody's eyes burned with almost fanatical intensity.

"The estate passed out of his hands and into Ginny's, and in the absence of a Malfoy heir of Ginny's body, it will revert to the Ministry. The only way he can avoid it is by somehow producing an heir out of nowhere – but Draco is dead, and he killed off all the rest of his relatives when they tried to depose him years ago."

Moody stiffened and turned his head, fixing Shacklebolt with his mad, burning gaze. "Wait – say that again."

Shacklebolt blinked. "What? He killed off all his other relatives? Oh, no one's ever proved it, but everyone knows…"

"No, the other bit. The bit about a new Malfoy heir appearing out of nowhere… _Merlin's Balls! _How could I not see it?"

"But…how? Draco is dead…"

"Yes, _Draco _is dead. But what about the old bastard himself? Does that make him a eunuch? He can't be much more than fifty…"

* * *

They sat at the dinner table one night and Lucius, gently controlling the conversation, steered it around to the very same subject. Comfortable enough with him now that she could offer him comfort, she reached out and touched his hand, smiling, as she said, "I'm sorry the Ministry's gloating so obviously about finally getting the better of you, Lucius. They've been waiting a very long time for this…"

He looked down rather bemusedly at the hand resting so trustingly on his sleeve. "My dear Ginny, let them gloat. I may yet emerge the victor."

She looked puzzled. He sighed. "Is it so surprising that I should be a mortal man, after all? I have fathered one child, and I am quite capable of fathering another. Perhaps I will produce a Malfoy heir to spite them all…"

"But the conditions clearly state that the heir must be of my body as well as of Malfoy blood," she pointed out reasonably, trying not to think of Lucius Malfoy as a mortal man, capable of fathering children.

"Well then," he said gravely, "there you have it. The solution."

Her mouth dropped open and she stared in open astonishment. "You…you can't mean it – I mean, it's…it's sick! You're Draco's father…" He was Draco's father. She was his son's widow. He was a good twenty or so years older – although it was not a huge age gap, in the wizarding world – and he was her family's enemy. He was a convicted Death Eater, and he had ruined her life in her first year with that enchanted diary…

"Yes, I admit that the prospect is not altogether appealing," he replied casually, sipping at his wine. "Nevertheless, I have done far more unpleasant things in my life…"

She threw her knife at his head, unsurprised when he plucked it out of the air. She had learned to recognize his sense of humour, the narrowed eyes that were often all he showed of his amusement – but he was not joking now, or at least not entirely. Some part of him was seriously considering his outrageous proposal.

A cold chill of realization set her heart stuttering and her fingers trembling. It had never before occurred to her that he was a man, as well as her father-in-law, or foe, or sparring partner. Not only that, he was a Death Eater, and he was capable of the most terrible crimes…

She must have paled, or shown her fear in some way, because he looked suddenly ironic. "Don't look so terrified, Ginevra, I'm not going to attack you at the dinner table."

Anger rushed up in automatic defense against fear. "I wouldn't put it past you," she sneered. "I'm sure you've done far worse."

He raised a brow. "My dear girl, if all I'd wanted was a child I'd have gone about it much more subtly, I assure you. I'd have drugged you, impregnated you and then Obliviated you months ago, and then passed the child off as Draco's –"

Her jaw dropped in horrified amazement. "That's…that's diabolical! You weren't seriously…"

"Yes," he mused mock-seriously, holding his wine up to the candlelight, inspecting the deep, rich ruby glow. "Yes, it is rather clever, isn't it? But I've left it rather late, if that was all I was planning. It's been five months since his death..."

"Think it over, Ginevra," he said quietly, as if he had not just shattered all of the unspoken taboos that allowed them both to co-exist peacefully. "It would make things much easier on all of us…"

* * *

Next chapter – the Weasleys visit the Manor. And Moody confronts Lucius.

Credit and acknowledgment must go to Caryn, who came up with Lucius' diabolical drug-and-obliviate plan. (Such deviousness should be rewarded! That's a very dangerous inner-Lucius you're channeling, luv) Thanks to all of my reviewers; any and all feedback is welcomed.


	5. V

A/N – Chapter 5, as promised. Here we have the Weasleys coming to check up on Ginny, and her reaction to their entry into her contained world.

Disclaimer – I don't own any of the canon concepts or characters. HP belongs to JK Rowling and ors. No profit made from this.

* * *

**V**

* * *

Bill Weasley had always had a soft spot for his sister Ginny. It wasn't just because she was the youngest, or the only girl – although that may have had a great deal to do with it – but because she was fiercely competitive but willing to laugh about it, and because she was brave, resilient, and backed down to nothing and no one.

He remembered her at her wedding, laughing and smiling despite the grim realities of the outside world. She had been happy with Draco, not even Ron could deny it. But then it had all ended, and she had retreated here, to this silent, still house in a land bypassed by time –

Malfoy Manor had blazed with light, once, when Lucius Malfoy had been young and still building and consolidating his power. In the days when the name Voldemort was still a whispered rumour and no one had ever heard of the Death Eaters, Lucius and his beautiful wife had dominated wizarding society. Invitations to the Manor had been fiercely coveted, and the house parties held there had been legendary.

The revels of later days were also notorious, albeit for very different reasons.

Draco had been nothing like his father. What the hell had the Ministry been thinking, allowing Lucius Malfoy anywhere near her, so soon after Draco's death? Surely they would have known how vulnerable she would be…

Ginny was brave and strong, but this was _Malfoy. _

* * *

"Bill!" Ginny shouted, laughing, as she ran out of the front door and threw herself into his arms. "What are you doing here?"

He laughed, picked her up off her feet and twirled her around. "I've come to check on my favourite sister," he answered. "Mum threatened to come herself, but I talked her out of it." He set her back on her feet, laughing, her face flushed. "You look pale, Gin. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Of course I'm all right," she said, patting her hair back into place. "Why shouldn't I be?"

Bill only looked at her, his eyes dark. "We shouldn't have left you alone with him."

She didn't pretend to misunderstand. "He hasn't done anything, Bill. We've left each other alone…" Even as she spoke, she wondered why she didn't tell her brother about Lucius' outrageous proposal.

There was a soft step behind them, a whisper of rustling fabric, and she saw Bill's gaze go past her shoulder and harden.

"Malfoy," he said, his voice hard and dangerous. Her family might have accepted Draco, but that didn't mean they'd forgiven his father.

Ginny didn't need to turn around to see the expression in Lucius' eyes. She knew that it would be ironic and utterly infuriating.

"Mr. Weasley," he said dryly. "I trust you are satisfied your sister is unharmed?"

Bill glared at him.

Ginny sighed. She should have known that this would happen. For the last few weeks, since he had so calmly shattered her complacency, Lucius had been surprisingly good company; so good that she had forgotten how thoroughly unpleasant he could be.

She thought about interfering, of growling at them both in exasperation, but somehow it did not seem appropriate; she might have shouted at Ron and Draco and ordered them to behave like men instead of boys, but Bill and Lucius were two very different prospects.

Lucius was quite capable of ignoring her. Bill would not appreciate his younger sister scolding him in front of Lucius, especially when he had come to rescue her from him.

"You must stay for dinner," she informed Bill, smiling pleasantly, ignoring his mounting frustration. "I'd love to hear all the news about the family."

In the face of her relentless courtesy, with Lucius looking on, cool and ironic, Bill was forced to acquiesce. He forced a smile. "Sure. I'd love to stay. Mum ordered me not to come home until I've got the answers to a whole list of questions…"

And in that way, Ginny got her brother willingly – if not precisely happily – over the threshold and into Malfoy Manor. As she ushered him into the foyer and passed him off into Libby's care, she sent a cool, pointed look Lucius' way, and was rewarded with a bland, noncommittal inclination of his head.

He would behave. For now.

* * *

The officious, overly dignified house elf conducted Bill to a luxurious set of rooms – well, all the sets of rooms looked luxurious, from what he could see – and told him that the Master and Mistress dined at seven, but met at ten minutes before for a drink in the Queen's drawing room.

Bill blinked. The Queen's drawing room? How many drawing rooms did they have? From what he had seen, the place was huge; unlike all his earlier expectations of a rich, fussy Palladian palace, the misnamed Manor was a bloody great fortress.

"Does Master Weasley want Libby to press his clothes while he bathes?" the house elf interrupted his thoughts.

Clothes? He hadn't brought any extra clothes.

"Does Master Weasley not dress for dinner in his own home?" There was disapproval in the house elf's voice now, as if she were reproaching him for not measuring up to Malfoy standards.

"No," he said almost defensively, knowing full well how ridiculous it was, "No, I don't."

The house elf sniffed.

"Then Master Weasley will have to borrow some clothes." She sounded resigned, but looked him up and down, no doubt guessing his measurements down to the size of his socks. "Master Weasley will probably fit into old Master Abraxis' clothes." She nodded to herself. "Libby will be back in half an hour."

And with that, she left, leaving Bill to take his bath alone in careless luxury. However, before he could unbutton his shirt he heard a soft shushing behind him, and turned to find Lucius Malfoy in the doorway, watching him quizzically.

"Malfoy!" he said, startled, unconsciously clutching the edges of his shirt together. "What are you doing here?"

The older man's eyes dropped to his hastily concealed chest, and Bill could have sworn he saw amusement in their depths. "Relax, Mr. Weasley," he said, sitting down gracefully on a delicate, spindly chair, an antique of some sort. "Rest assured that I have no designs on your virtue."

Bill stared at him, unsure of whether he should be infuriated or amused. Older and more tolerant than Ron, laughter won out; he relaxed and deliberately turned his back to strip off his shirt, feigning a nonchalance he didn't feel. He would not let Malfoy know that he had affected him.

"Why then?" he asked, dipping his fingers into the bathwater, unsurprised to find it at his preferred temperature. "I can't see that we have anything to speak about."

There was a soft, almost sinister chuckle of laughter behind him. "Gryffindor strength," Lucius Malfoy said quietly. "Matured and hardened by war and adversity. You are not very like your brother Ronald."

Bill forced himself not to bristle. "Ron tends to see things solely in absolutes. Of course, the war changed that a little…"

"But only a little. And the rest of your family? Are they all like young Ronald? Or do any of your other brothers share your patience?"

"Why?" Bill demanded, instinctively mistrusting this line of conversation. "Why would you possibly care?" He rounded on the other man suspiciously; he was willing to be patient and tolerant, yes, but only to a point.

Cool, flat grey eyes met his without a shadow of irony or amusement. "Because I want you to understand. You may have accepted Draco, but I'm not sure if you accepted all of him."

"All of him? You mean we made him into what we wanted him to be?"

"Yes. But then, I think Draco made himself into what others wanted him to be."

Bill's mouth twisted. "And why is that, I wonder?"

This time Lucius' eyes were amused. "As you say, Mr. Weasley. But come, put your shirt back on and I will show you what I mean."

Mystified, suspicious, and alert to any kind of danger, Bill shrugged back into his shirt and followed Lucius Malfoy out into the corridor.

* * *

The way Lucius took to the battlements wound past the Crimson gallery, down the Baroque stairs, and through the portrait gallery, where the portraits of Malfoy ancestors hung on the wall. Bill noticed that none of them were enchanted – they were all as still and frozen as muggle portraits: strange, in this stronghold of pureblood values.

Lucius saw his interest in them. "My esteemed ancestors," he said dryly. "However, I shudder to think of them invested with even a limited ability to move and speak; they are not as…benign as the portraits at Hogwarts."

Looking at a portrait of an ancient Malfoy, his sword drenched in blood, triumphantly holding up a severed, snarling human head, Bill could only agree. As they progressed along the gallery, coming to more modern, more civilized Malfoy, he saw old Abraxis Malfoy, Lucius himself, and a portrait of Draco as he was at fifteen years old.

And then there were no more.

Leaving the portrait gallery, they climbed a stark stone stairway twisting around the inside of an ancient tower, and emerged into open air, high above the ground on the battlements of the castle. From here, they could see the land for miles around in all directions, stretching into the horizon where the slightest suggestion of a shimmer defined the limits of the estate.

Lucius leaned against a stone parapet, his eyes narrowed against the wind. His fair hair windblown and tangled, he did not look very menacing – but Bill remembered the bloody portraits, and saw the ancient, stone strength of the fortress walls. "I spent nine years in Azkaban, Weasley. Until I was released, I never knew just how much I had missed looking at the sky."

Bill said nothing.

"There is a special spot, on the side of that hill there," he nodded at a hill to their right, "from where you can see the whole estate stretched out at your feet, and the sky stretching above you like a vault. My father took me there, when I was seven years old, and showed me my whole world. I took Draco there, when he was seven years old – and Draco should have been able to take his son, too, in turn. But Draco is dead, now, and only I remain…"

He turned to Bill, those silver eyes intent and glowing. "I will not let the Ministry get their hands on this land."

"I don't see how you can stop them."

Lucius smiled. "Don't you?"

* * *

Later that night, after dinner, Lucius tactfully left them alone so they could talk. Ginny was eager to hear about the rest of the Weasleys, the sudden homesickness taking her by surprise. However, before she got a chance to interrogate him, Bill spoke first. "Ginny, are you…happy, here?"

She looked at him, puzzled. "Happy? I'm content, Bill. There are memories, of course, but Lucius doesn't let me mope…"

He stiffened. Ginny wondered why, wondered why Bill had come, if only to criticise Lucius and pick at her for getting along with him. She had to get along with Lucius, otherwise living in the same house would be impossible.

"Listen Gin," Bill said seriously. "Mum, and Dad, and the rest of us, we have some serious concerns about your staying here, alone, with Malfoy." She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand, staying her. "No, just listen. I know you think he's mellowed –"

"Bill," she interrupted, "I know exactly what he is, and what he is capable of. It's alright; I can handle him."

Her brother took her hand in his own, his expression grave and worried. "He's got an agenda, and he's planning something that almost certainly involves you. Don't fool yourself; he can'tbe trusted."

She said nothing.

"Ginny," he urged softly, "you've mourned him long enough. It's time to come back to the _real_ world."

She forced a laugh. "The real world?" She looked around at the room, deliberately reached over to touch the side table, demonstrating its solidity. "Bill, this place is solid enough. It's not going to vanish when the sun rises."

He made a small sound of frustration. "You know what I mean. The Manor – the whole damned estate – is frozen in time. Merlin's Beard, villagers who still pull their forelock? Drinks before dinner in the Queen's drawing room? The people here have no concept of the outside world. Even Malfoy buys into it; he still thinks himself a feudal Lord. The whole place is one great illusion."

"I know," she replied. "But it's not an illusion; the people truly believe that they have the right to his protection. And Malfoy – sophisticated, ruthless Lucius Malfoy – honestly believes that it's his duty to protect them. Don't you see? To them, it _is _real."

Bill looked exasperated. "Don't tell me you're starting to believe it too. Ginny, you've been isolated here with Malfoy for too long; you're starting to lose sight of reality. You need to get away from here."

He reached out and took her other hand, deliberately linking their hands together. "Come _home_, Gin. We miss you."

She swallowed, fighting the pressure in her throat. She squeezed his hands, feeling the reassuring strength, simple, honest and steadfast, of her eldest and favourite brother. Bill and her family offered comfort, love and strength freely. She could go back to them, bask in their uncomplicated world where there were no questions of onerous duty or ancient responsibility.

Draco was dead, and there was nothing left to bind her to the Malfoy and their enchanted, illusory world.

_They will take responsibility _from_ you. _

_You want to shuffle off your responsibilities to someone else because you find them too hard, too painful._

But she had turned the control of the estate over to Lucius. What more could he possibly want?

"Yes," she said faintly, lifting her head to meet Bill's concerned eyes squarely. "I think it's time that I returned home."

* * *

Thanks to all my reviewers. Your comments and feedback are greatly appreciated.


	6. VI

A/N – I had about a quarter of this chapter roughed out a week after I posted the last one, but it disappeared into the wilderness of my hard drive and I couldn't remember what I wrote. In this chapter, for all those who missed it last chapter, we have a confrontation between Lucius and Moody – I hope that it satisfies.

Disclaimer – I don't own Harry Potter. I'm quite sure JK Rowling wouldn't approve of what I'm doing to her characters. Nevertheless, don't sue. I don't know anything about gardening, either – for what it's worth, my grandmother has roses, but I can't even grow sprouts in a jar.

* * *

**Chapter VI**

* * *

Nothing had changed.

Sitting cross-legged on her childhood bed, Ginny looked at around at her old bedroom. There – the old, yellowed lace curtains her mother had sewn from scraps of her old wedding dress. There – the battered stuffed dragon, passed down from Charlie to Fred and George and finally to her. There – the patchwork quilt she and her mother had made together, in the last summer before her first year at Hogwarts.

It was as if she'd never grown up.

_

* * *

_

_When Bill had gone, she'd sat there in thought for some time, thinking over what he'd said, what she'd said – it was reasonable, logical, sensible, that she go back to her own world rather than linger in this dream world, this illusion. She didn't belong here, at Malfoy Manor – she was a Weasley, and the only tie that had ever bound her to this world was gone._

_Draco was dead. The dream was over, and it was time to go back to reality. She stood up, drew her robes around her, and went to find Lucius. _

_Usually, even at this time of the night, he could be found in his study going over the books, or checking his investments. However, as she tapped on the door, pushing it open softly, she was surprised to see that he was not there – nor, in fact, was he in the library, or in the music room. Frustrated, a little piqued by his absence, she collared a stray house elf who told her, bowing repeatedly, that the master had already retired to his chambers. _

_Determined, she made her way towards his private wing, not pausing to think of the lateness of the hour, nor of any possible impropriety in cornering him in his own bedroom. Rapping sharply on his door, she bounced impatiently on her toes, not quite sure what it was she wanted, certain only that she had to speak to him. She couldn't leave without first discussing it with him._

_The door opened to reveal not Timmy, Lucius' personal house elf, but the man himself. _

"_Ginevra," he said, eyebrow half-raised. "This is…unexpected."_

"_Lucius," she said firmly, pushing past him into the room itself, "I have to talk to you."_

_There was a short silence behind her, before she heard the door close and his soft footsteps head back towards her. There was a clink of crystal, and the slosh of poured alcohol – _

"_Will you go with your brother in the morning?" he asked coolly._

_What? How had he…? _

_She turned to face him, her head held high. "Yes, I will. I've stayed here long enough."_

_He was barefoot, wearing a loose navy blue under robe, stark against his white, white skin. His long white hair, unbound, hung about him like a cloak – backlit against the fire, he was spectacularly luminous. Ginny found it criminally unfair, sometimes, that appearances could be so deceptive. _

"_And our bargain?"_

"_You'll survive, Lucius; you always survive. Others, however, are not so lucky – I can't live like this," she burst out suddenly, months of frustration, grief and bitterness coming to the fore. "I can't live like you do, in this illusion of Malfoy splendour, while the rest of the world is out there somewhere," she waved a hand, "and real people live and die as you feather your nest!"_

_He watched her closely, taking a meditative sip of his drink. "How else am I to live, Ginevra? What other purpose do I have, now, other than to preserve what little I have left? I know you are young, but I don't think you're foolish – go, if you must, but do not destroy the delicate arrangements I've put into place."_

_Unfortunately, the calm, condescending tone – normally so effective in sobering her dramatics – had the opposite effect this time. It infuriated her. She had had enough of his twisted reasoning, enough of his patronizing her, and she wanted to go home, back to a familiar world where people believed in what she believed, and who would act recklessly, make mistakes, shout and swear and abuse each other…_

"_Your arrangements?" she shouted, ignoring his wince, the reflexive withdrawal from an untoward show of emotion. "Fuck your arrangements, Lucius! Fuck your plans, your schemes, and your bloody estate! I don't care – do you hear me? In Merlin's name – no, in Her name – I reject your whole House; I hereby rescind your power to act for me!"_

_They stared at each other, then, as the magic swirled about them in acknowledgment of her words. There was something very grim in Lucius' eyes, something quickly, carefully hidden, but Ginny was too lost in her righteous, incredibly liberating anger to notice it. _

"_So be it," Lucius said. _

* * *

She still cringed when she thought of that night.

* * *

"One thing I can say about you, Malfoy," Alastor Moody's gloating, unwelcome voice carried over the still, humid air, "is that whenever you do make a wrong step, you can count on it going spectacularly wrong. What did you say to get that girl so worked up?"

Lucius ignored him, focusing on watering Narcissa's prized roses. She had always done it by hand, from a battered and dented tin watering can, and so he took comfort in carrying on the tradition.

"What do you want, Moody?"

"You know the terms of your freedom from Azkaban. Ginny Weasley – she's gone back to her maiden name, now – was to keep you under constant supervision; and now she's gone…" Gleefully, the grizzled Auror turned up his palms in the worst imitation of innocence Lucius had ever seen.

"You mean _you _have not come to replace her?"

Moody grinned maliciously. "If you're not careful, Malfoy, I might just take you up on that offer. And damned sure you wouldn't like it. How did you convince her to give you control of the Malfoy affairs?"

"Very carefully." He pulled on a pair of thick gardening gloves and picked up the secateurs. Carefully, he began to prune the rosebushes, snipping and cutting with ruthless delicacy. Narcissa had told him that careful pruning was necessary to allow the bush to thrive in the next year. "Did you send her brother here?"

"Capable, worldly Bill. You're lucky I didn't send the youngest son, Ron."

"Young Ronald would have done all my work for me, I think. I find your constant interference in my affairs most aggravating, Moody. You have won the contest, the war, and even the popularity stakes – can you not leave me this much?"

Moody snorted. "No. I'll only believe you beaten when I can personally toss flowers onto your grave. I want to know what you plan for the girl."

"For Ginevra _Weasley? _Nothing, not when she's gone back to her family and to Potter. My influence cannot reach there."

"How were you going to convince her to give you an heir? And don't say very carefully, Malfoy. Did you try to seduce her into staying? Is that why she ran?"

"She ran," Lucius said, very steadily, "because I did not try to seduce her into staying."

* * *

"_Ginny, dear!" Her mother's arms were wide and welcoming as she enfolded Ginny in a warm, floury hug. "We were so worried about you, staying all alone in that house with That Man. Are you sure you're all right? He didn't try to…do…anything to you?"_

"_No, Mum," she said, after she'd regained her breath. "No, he didn't try anything. _

_Her mother had eyed her anxiously for a moment, before deciding to accept her word for it. Ginny wondered what would have happened if she'd thought that Ginny was concealing something – Molly Weasley was like a lion, when one of her cubs was threatened. "Oh, my dear girl, I'm so glad to have you home with us again. It'll be just like old times, with Harry and Hermione staying with us…"_

_Ginny stared at her. "Harry's here?"_

* * *

Her diary was exactly where she had tossed it, when she'd come home after her second year and sworn never to confide her deepest secrets and thoughts to anything inanimate ever again. Before then, Ginny had been an avid journalist – she'd found that writing her thoughts down had helped to focus them, organize them into something resembling logic.

She'd never touched a diary since.

But opening this one, given to her by her parents on her tenth birthday, she found all the deepest agonies and dreams of her very young self set there, in the round, elaborately loopy writing she'd favoured then. Most of those fantasies centred on Harry Potter, with his adorable green eyes and nervous, shy grin, so unlike her redheaded, confident, self-centred brothers.

Her childhood crush, the first boy whose smile had ever made her flush, made things low in her stomach flutter madly. Later, of course, she'd fallen in love with Draco, a whirlwind affair composed of equal parts sex, adrenaline and antagonism – Aurors both, they'd been partners, their relationship based on competition and one-upmanship, until they'd discovered their spectacular sexual compatibility.

She'd grieved for Draco, wept, cried and screamed for him, for them, for what they'd lost and what they could have had, but it was all over now.

"Ginny!" There was a pounding on the stairs, a hurried knock on her door, and then it burst open to reveal Hermione, her eyes wide and full of relief. "You're back – oh, I've missed you so much!" She seized Ginny in a crushing hug. "I was so worried for you, alone with Malfoy…"

Ginny's hands fluttered desperately as she tried to break free. Belatedly, Hermione released her and smiled, blindingly bright. The muggleborn girl – woman – was as she had always been, bright, self-assured, and firm in her own convictions. She had an important job in the Ministry and was determined to make a success of it, to use her position and her power to mop up the rest of the Death Eaters and make the world a better place. No wonder she hadn't liked Ginny living with Lucius.

"_I can't live like you do, in this illusion of Malfoy splendour…"_

"_How else am I to live, Ginevra? What other purpose do I have, now, other than to preserve what little I have left?"_

"Come on, Ginny," Hermione smiled. "It'll be alright now. We'll all help you, and soon these last few months will be little more than a memory. You'll see – one day, you'll be happy again…"

* * *

"The terms of your parole are quite clear, Malfoy," Moody said. "You can't stay here without her. If she doesn't come back, then you go straight back to Azkaban, without your two hundred knuts…"

Lucius Malfoy watched him through those clear – and damnably hard to read – silver eyes. Not for the first time, Moody wondered whether it was a good thing or not that the Ministry insisted on Ginevra Malf- _Weasley _as this man's keeper. Because Malfoy, like so many others who had experienced the hospitality of Azkaban, was clearly determined not to go back; if Moody knew anything about him, he would do absolutely anything to avoid it.

And Moody didn't believe it was a good idea to give Malfoy a reason to bring the girl back under his influence…

* * *

A/N – Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers. Please continue to feed the fanfic author: any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.


	7. VII

A/N – This story is always great fun. Thanks for all your support. I have invented an Italian wizarding designer, in lieu of Armani, Versace, and Gucci etc.

Disclaimer – I don't own any of the canon characters or concepts. Don't sue me.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 7**

* * *

The paparazzi lay in wait for her as she came through the Leaky Cauldron's entrance to Diagon Alley.

_"Mrs. Malfoy!"_ They shouted, jostling and crowding her, shoving magical recording devices in her face. _"How does it feel to be back?"_

_"Is it true you've inherited everything?"_

_"What will you do now that you've returned?"_

Shocked by the unexpected barrage of questions and demands, she froze, wincing automatically as flashbulbs from cameras went off all around her, stunned as the crowd grew and grew.

_"What was it like living with Lucius Malfoy?"_

_"Will you and Harry Potter ever get back together?"_

_"Will you be going to Mrs. Zabini's charity ball tomorrow night?"_

She looked around for any sign of support, her eyes wild –

"Ginny!" someone shouted, a hand reaching out to her from the crowd. "Over here! It's me, Colin!"

She turned towards him with a sigh of purest relief. Grabbing his hand, she allowed him to drag her through the mad, slavering pack, ducking and running until they finally ran into the shelter of the Ministry building.

"Colin," she said, hugging him warmly. "Thank you _so _much… I don't know where they all came from."

He grinned sardonically. "They've been lying in wait ever since you told the Ministry you were coming back. Everyone wanted to be the first to see you, to hear your story."

"My story?" she grimaced. "What do you mean, my story? I've been out of circulation for – what – nine months? I missed out on the last great battles; you and Harry and everyone else did all that without me."

"Oh, Voldemort," he flicked his hand. "Voldemort is old news. You, on the other hand…"

She gave him a serious look. "I?" Nine months with Lucius, and she had picked up the sometimes unfortunate habit of grammatical correctness. "Colin, what's going on?"

Ginny had known Colin Creevey for more than a decade, since her first year at Hogwarts. He would always tell her the truth, rather than sugar-coated lies. And so she knew that there was something very wrong when he looked at her like that.

"Come on," he said, no longer flippant. "Let's go for a walk."

They walked further into the Ministry, up the stairs heading towards the headquarters of the Auror Corps, where she had once worked. Their footsteps echoed through the corridors, and from time to time she could feel flickers of memory gather – once, she had walked this way with Draco every way, bickering and quarreling companionably.

"Tell me what's going on," she said finally. "Moody told me I could have my job back, but that I'd be riding a desk for the foreseeable future. And what's with all the press? You'd think I'd done something worthwhile, saving the world like Harry –"

"Ginny," he interrupted her, "Ginny, listen."

She stopped. Looked at him.

"Things have changed. Voldemort is gone, most of the Death Eaters have been rounded up – while you've been cooped up in Wales, we've gone through six months of absolute hell." He saw her pale, saw her eyes darken, and held up a staying hand. "No, don't feel guilty, none of us begrudge you your grief. But now that it's over, people are desperate for good news, for happy stories…"

"And my rejoining the world is a happy story?"

"No, but some fool in the government has leaked the details of your inheritance. Just think – a Weasley inheriting the Malfoy fortune! It's fantastic copy. The press had an absolute field day with it, and now everyone wants a piece of you."

They stopped walking, and Colin turned to look at her, his observant eyes taking in her pale skin, her rich, copper hair, and the still-fragile dark eyes. He smiled, reached out and tugged playfully at the sleeves of her robes, warm black ones that Libby had unearthed for her when she'd been packing her trunks to leave.

"Look at this, for example. Where did you get these, Ginny?" he asked, half-seriously.

She looked down, baffled, at her clothes. "The house elves at the Manor produced them. Why? Is there something wrong with them?

"Wrong?" She could see the laughter in his eyes now. "No, there's nothing wrong with them. Is there a rose embroidered on the collar somewhere?"

Frowning now, more than half convinced he was winding her up, she ran a cautious finger over the collar, feeling for the raised sensation of embroidery. "Yes," she said, surprised. Tugging it away from her neck, she looked down at a black rose, embroidered on the black fabric. "Yes, there is. What possible connection is there between –"

"Come on, Gin," he gave up and shook his head. "Don't you recognize genuine Mallorini robes when you're wearing them? Those are the newest fashions, too."

"Mallorini?" she gasped. "But… but Libby said…" She stopped, and thought. When she'd unpacked her clothes at the Burrow, there'd been a number of such unfamiliar outfits – she'd just assumed they were taken from Narcissa's wardrobe. But Narcissa had been shorter, and more ethereal than she was.

"They're not mine," she said desperately. "Lucius snuck them into my wardrobe…" She scowled, her temper rising at the revelation of Lucius' perfidy. "Well, so what if I'm wearing designer robes," she snapped. "It doesn't change me in any way, or affect my ability to do my job."

"No," he said slowly, "but you understand that just one set of these costs almost as much as I make each year. You've inherited an absolute fortune, Ginny. Instantly, you're fashionable, you're newsworthy, and you've lost any anonymity you might ever have had. You're not Ginny Weasley, Auror, any more; you're Draco Malfoy's widow."

"Draco Malfoy's widow?" she said furiously. "Draco Malfoy's widow, who had the good luck to inherit his whole fortune? There was nothing _lucky_ about it."

She paused, looked hard at him. "What else, Colin?"

He flushed, looked away.

"What else?" she demanded. "Why is there such a frenzy? Sure, I can understand the human interest angle, and even the irony, but I'll never be fashionable like Narcissa. The only thing different about me is my money –"

Colin winced.

"My money," she said quietly. "The Malfoy fortune, and a grieving widow…"

Cornered, Colin shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. Casually, extremely casually, he said, "They're laying bets –"

"_Bets!" _

"It was a joke, at first, among a small group of ex-Slytherins, small players who escaped the Death Eater hunt but don't have any love for the Ministry. But then it spread…"

"Do I look like a weak, spineless biddy?" she shouted. "Do they think I'm so desperate for a man I'll fall straight into the hands of the first one to console me?"

Colin shook his head. Ginny was no weak, spineless innocent. She'd always been an Amazon to Colin, strong, self-confident, and brilliant at Quidditch and holding her own with the boys. But now, there was something a little fragile, a little injured about her – it was like she'd lost her foundation, her centre, and still needed time to recover. She was not back to her best, and she would need to be, to face the furor her money and the media had created.

Now that Ginny was out of mourning and out from under the shadow of her formidable father-in-law, she would be seen her as fair game…

Deliberately dispelling the tension, he turned to face her, grinning. "Come on, you wilting flower – let's discuss it further over lunch. Seeing as you're so rich now, you can shout."

She snorted, punching him in the shoulder as she'd done long ago, when Draco was alive, before things had gone so wrong. For a moment, she remembered what it was to laugh and tease and have fun – and it was good.

* * *

Lucius wondered how long it would take the vultures to gather 'round the newly emerged widow. While she was in mourning, closing herself off from the world, the fortune hunters had stayed away. While she was living at Malfoy Manor under his protection – for all it was supposed to be the other way around – they had also stayed away, having a healthy respect for him and his power and influence, greatly diminished though it was.

But now that she had emerged…

Ginny had wanted to return to the real world, the world of struggle and conflict outside the peace and quiet of his world. She had wanted to return to the world where real people lived and fought and died – well, in that world, she, too, would become part of the struggle.

Lucius had had enough of fighting, but he was old, now; he'd seen the world, faced it on his own terms, fought and struggled to make his own place in it – he'd won, and he'd lost, and he'd learned enough to know his limits and his weaknesses as well as his strengths.

Ginny would have to learn her own lessons.

* * *

There was a small canteen in the headquarters of the Auror Corps, where they sold terrible food for prices that had made even Draco wince. Ginny and Colin lashed out, buying toasted sandwiches and cups of muggle coffee, and then went to sit down at one of the rickety tables in the corner.

"So let me get this straight," she said, her eyes glowering angrily. "Lucius knew that I would face this kind of reaction –"

"Whoa," Colin said, waving his hands. "Stop, stop. I didn't say that. I can't answer for Malfoy; I've never even met the man. All I'm saying is…"

She waved a hand, wholly dismissing his concerns. "Let me assure you, he knew exactly what he was doing. The bastard always does."

Colin looked at her, surprised. "Ginny? Are you sure he didn't –"

"No, no, he didn't do anything to harm me," she scowled. "But when I told him I was leaving, he didn't say anything about this."

"Did he try to dissuade you?"

"Of course he did. The Ministry won't let him stay at Malfoy Manor unsupervised forever, so he's got to try and get me back."

Colin wondered how she could say that so breezily. If he had Lucius Malfoy on his tail, trying to drag him back to the isolation of Malfoy Manor, he would not be at all blasé.

"No wonder he didn't say anything," she continued. "He knew that I would hate being pursued…" she narrowed her eyes, "but it's not going to work!"

He blinked. "It's not?"

"No," she said grimly. "It's not. I don't care how difficult it becomes; I'm not running back to him with my tail between my legs."

"I'm beginning to wonder about you and Malfoy," Colin said, staring curiously at her. "You seem to have formed a very strange relationship with him…"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…" he faltered, looking at her completely baffled face. "Nothing. Don't worry."

She frowned at him a little suspiciously, but didn't pursue it any further.

"Have you seen Harry yet, Ginny?" he asked, turning the subject.

"Yes," she said slowly, "yes I have. He was at the Burrow when I arrived." Her scowl deepened. "Why does everybody assume that Lucius would lock me up in the attic and put me through all sorts of depraved sexual torture?"

Colin coughed, spewing coffee everywhere. "Christ, Gin!"

Her eyes laughed at him. "I'm serious, Colin. Everyone I've talked to asks me if Lucius harmed me in any way…"

"Right," he said, "that's it. You've spent too long with the Malfoy; you're picking up on their sense of humour. It was bad enough when bloody Draco would do that, and now you're doing it too –" He stopped, put his hand over hers and gave it a little squeeze. "I'm sorry, Gin. He was a good friend. If there's anything you need –"

She smiled at him, turned her hand over and returned the squeeze. "Thank you, Colin."

"I'm serious. We're all here for you – me, Neville, Seamus, Harry, all the old gang. No matter what you're up against, you don't have to face it alone…"

* * *

A/N - Don't forget to feed the author! Thank you to all my reviewers. Feedback is greatly appreciated.


	8. VIII

A/N – Many apologies for the delay on this chapter. Thank you to all my reviewers for your responses and feedback.

Disclaimer – I don't own the canon characters or concepts. I'm writing this for my own personal gratification and am not receiving any profit from it. Don't sue.

**

* * *

**

**VIII**

* * *

The trouble started on the first night she ventured out into the Diagon Alley social circuit.

"_Where are you going, Mrs. Malfoy?"_

"_Who is your companion?"_

"_Is there anything you'd like to tell us?"_

"_Is it love?"_

Ron, Hermione and Colin managed to band together and shelter her from the worst of the onslaught, forcing their way through the throng, but it was a close-run thing. Her first venture out on the town since the end of her official mourning period and the paparazzi were all over her, searching for a story, as if some kind of glamour clung to her and could be dispensed vicariously.

Even when she'd been deep in the throes of romance with Draco, they hadn't needed to worry about photographers flocking around them, analyzing their every step, watching their every move with hungry, judgmental eyes. Of course, they'd been in a state of war, then, and the press had other things to worry about, but even so…

"You're lucky you didn't come out with Harry," Ron said, panting, after they'd forced their way into an exclusive restaurant equipped with anti-eavesdropping and anti-peeping Tom charms. The very French maitre'd hovered around them obsequiously, bowing profusely, declaring how very grateful he was that Madame Malfoy had graced his humble abode with her presence.

Ginny gave him a wry look. "Thank you, Philippe." Lucius had told her once that the so-charming Philippe had begun his life in the East End. "Do you have our table ready?"

"But of course," he said expansively. "There is always a table in _Philippe's _for the Malfoy family."

Hermione rolled her eyes, and Colin grinned. She shot them both a quelling look and proceeded with queenly grace towards their table – one of the very best, of course – where the waiters almost came to blows over who was to have the honour of serving her.

Once again, not something she had ever experienced with Draco by her side – but then he had been resolute in rejecting his aristocratic roots.

"Merlin, Ginny," Ron said under his breath, once they had ordered. "Is it always like this?"

"I don't know," she answered frankly. "Draco and I never got the chance to go out like this, and Lucius and I never left the valley – Colin?"

"Why are you looking at me?" Colin looked innocent. "I'm not an expert."

"You were free enough with your advice yesterday."

"Oh?" Hermione grinned. "Tell."

"Colin here spotted my designer dress robes –"

"Yes," Ron chipped in, "What happened to your old clothes?"

Ginny scowled, hunching her shoulders. "The house elves wouldn't give mine back. Lucius says –"

"And what's with this _Lucius says? _Why should anything he says matter to you?"

"Well, what else am I supposed to call him? And there was no one else to teach me."

"Ginny," Hermione said carefully, "I don't know that I'd believe anything he has to say. He's a cold-blooded, amoral, manipulative bastard."

"I know, Hermione, but –"

"Come on, Gin, you can't think he has anything but his own best interests at heart? We worried about you, all alone with him; but now that you've left the old bastard behind, you can move on."

Ginny looked at her earnest face, so determined, so familiar, and felt a sudden, inexplicable feeling of resentment. Why was everyone telling her that she should move on for her own good? She was not a fool. She knew that Lucius was manipulative, and that he'd had plans for her. She didn't need every single person she knew telling her so.

She was twenty four years old. She was old enough – and surely competent enough – to look after herself.

"Hermione," she said slowly, fiddling with her silver cutlery, "you know I think of you like a sister. And Ron, I know that you can't help being anything other than an elder brother. But don't you think that you should trust me?"

Colin cleared his throat discreetly and managed to fade out of the discussion.

Hermione laid her hand on Ginny's. "Ginny, we all know how devastated you were by Malfoy's death. You were so vulnerable –"

"And now I'm back. I'm strong enough to stand on my own feet, now. You have to let go."

She turned to Ron, who looked stubborn and unhappy. "Ginny…"

"No, Ron." She said it firmly, confidently, and eventually Ron scowled and gave in.

"Right. Fine. I'll believe that you can look after yourself, if you stop throwing Malfoy's name around as if he was an arbiter of wisdom –"

Ginny grinned.

* * *

"Master Malfoy," Libby announced, "Mister Zabini is here."

Lucius looked up from his account books. "Send him in," he said shortly, dipping his quill into the inkwell and continuing his calculations.

Libby went out, and then Blaise Zabini grinned and sauntered into the room with the familiarity of a man who had long since been given free run of the Manor. He and Draco had grown up together, had been friends since infancy –

"What is it, Mr. Zabini?" He sanded the parchment, let it settle, and then blew gently on it, shaking it to remove the excess.

"I came to request permission to pay my addresses to Ginevra, sir"

Lucius paused, looking up from his ledgers. "I do trust that you're not serious."

That vivid, mobile face, with its amused, intelligent black eyes, was quite serious. "There are others, far less scrupulous –"

"And my answer will be exactly the same. No. Whether they ask, or not – it will not happen."

"With respect, Mr. Malfoy," Blaise said quietly, "I have to wonder about your motives in this."

Lucius peered at him over the rims of his half-moon glasses. "Oh?"

Blaise stiffened. "I mean no offence. But she was my best friend's wife, and I was not there when Draco died – but I _can_ protect Ginny. I'm asking for a chance to court her."

Lucius sighed, pushed his chair back, and went to stand over by the window. "It must be reassuring, to have such honourable intentions. –But what makes you think that I have such control over her remarriage? Are you so sure of my strength?"

Blaise stared at him incredulously. "Are you serious?" Lucius turned back, and he stopped abruptly, swallowed, and quickly modulated his voice. "You are _Lucius Malfoy._ And she is your daughter-in-law, Draco's heiress – I'd think you'd make damned sure you have control over her…"

"She is stubborn, Blaise. A Weasley, an Auror, quite determined – and, I believe, more than competent – to make her own way in the world without any interference on my part. She has informed me that she no longer needs my protection –"

"And yet you give it still, watching over her from afar, without the reciprocal obligations on her part."

Lucius only smiled, his mouth quirking ironically. "You and your parents did well to avoid Azkaban, Blaise."

Blaise eyed him with open curiosity, not sure whether he was bluffing or not. "Is it so bad?"

Lucius laughed. "Not for much longer."

* * *

Blaise walked slowly through the hallways of Malfoy Manor. It had been a very long time since he'd had to face Lucius Malfoy in his own study – he'd forgotten how intimidating the old bastard could be. As a young boy, running cautiously through the house – always on the lookout for Narcissa – and as a wretched, misbehaving adolescent, he'd dreaded the times that he and Draco had been hauled into Lucius' study, where he would make them wait, on tenterhooks, while he finished his correspondence.

Now, years later, Lucius was still intimidating. But after nine long, terrible years of imprisonment, after the Ministry strictures and persecution, and the premature deaths of his wife and son, he was not what he once was – else he would not have let Ginny go.

The Malfoy heiress, legal owner of every single asset that Lucius had spent his whole life cultivating, out in the big wide world with no protection.

Blaise had been the best man at Draco and Ginny's wedding. He'd watched her walk down the aisle of the Ministry registry building, dressed in a hastily transfigured white dress, and had felt a shocking punch in his midsection –

Hastily suppressed, and quickly denied –

And could never look Draco in the eye, afterwards.

He had not been there, when Draco died. He'd been too guilty, too aware of his shortcomings, and so he had not been by his oldest, best friend's side at the end. But he could stand by Ginny…

* * *

Much, much later that night, as Ginny sat before the fire in her new flat in Diagon Alley – bought and paid for with Malfoy money – she looked around at the sleek, modern décor, and felt an unexpected pang for the old, tapestry covered stone walls of the Manor. She'd chosen to stay here instead of at the Malfoy town house because she'd wanted to strike out on her own, but there was something strange and daunting about so much blank, empty space –

She'd never lived alone. When she'd been an Auror on active duty, she'd lived in crowded, often dingy accommodation, often sleeping two or three to a room – she'd never woken up knowing that there was no one else in the house, that no one would hear her if she called out, or if she got up in the early hours of the morning, searching for company.

Even in the huge, ancient, often drafty Manor, Lucius had been as much of an insomniac as she. She'd gotten used to whimsical conversations at three in the morning, she in her all-enveloping night gown and he in his ridiculous Victorian smoking jacket, as much an affectation as his long hair and his snake-headed cane.

Now, once more awake and aware at three a.m, she had nothing but her own thoughts to occupy her, and nothing to distract her from the absolute emptiness. She wondered whether Lucius was as empty as she was, all alone in his huge, gilded cage, with no one but the house elves to keep him company. Ginny had to admit that while she had learned most of their names and had come to know them as well as she could, house elves were not big conversationalists.

(Laughing, she imagined Hermione's reaction had she dared to voice that thought aloud)

A tapping at the window drew her out of her depression. Curious, she stood up and opened the glass, letting the owl in – it was, to her surprise, one of the Malfoy owls from Lucius' mews. Feeding it a quickly transfigured tidbit, she unrolled the extended parchment, and, gently scratching the owl's feathers, read the beautifully penned message.

_Gringotts. 10am. Griphook is expecting you. I trust you are now composed enough to shoulder your responsibilities, and more than resourceful enough to handle any fortune hunters and confidence men who come your way. _

Ginny swore under her breath and threw the note into the fire. As the flames licked at the creamy, expensive parchment, she could hear the old bastard's sardonic laughter.

* * *


	9. IX

A/N – I have had the most shocking writer's block on this fic. My HP muse completely abandoned me. And, as an added bar to inspiration, over the Easter weekend I had a Steve McQueen marathon. Poor Lucius was quite eclipsed.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP. Or Lucius. Of the two, I'd rather have Lucius… I'm only borrowing him.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

* * *

The next morning, Ginny dressed in her best robes and arrived at Gringotts at 10:05am, sweeping into the bank in a grand entrance, deliberately and fashionably late. Just another trick she'd learned from her midnight talks with Lucius –

_My father is a liar, a murderer, and a cold-blooded, ruthless power monger. But no one can ever say that he lacks style..._

"Madame Malfoy." Griphook smiled; his eyes cold and flat as he bowed. "You are most welcome."

Ginny extended her hand, and he saluted it elegantly. "Master Griphook. My father-in-law speaks well of you."

As they progressed through the hallowed corridors, chatting sociably, the head goblins of the bank all took the opportunity to observe their newest major account holder. Lucius they had known and dealt with for decades, but this unknown woman – a _Weasley_ – had quarreled with her father-in-law, demanding control of her inheritance, and such change could only mean one thing for the bank: trouble.

"Yes," Griphook murmured, "Mr. Malfoy has long been a valued client of ours." He stopped, suddenly, one hand on his office door. "If I may be frank, Madame Malfoy, we were…_concerned, _to hear that you had forbidden him control of your affairs."

Watching his eyes, Ginny wondered why she had never before thought to look any deeper than his vaguely comical appearance. She supposed she'd never thought of goblins as wielding any real power – yes, they hoarded their money jealously; yes, they resented competition of any sort, and had crushed no less than four rival institutions in their two thousand year history.

But all that had been just background, rumours and gossip she'd heard all her life without ever really understanding. It was only now, confronted with the Head Goblin, that she realized Gringotts wielded very real financial clout –

And that they disapproved of her.

"With respect, Master Griphook," she retorted crisply, "Mr. Malfoy was stripped of his control and authority, and every single one of his assets and accounts was declared forfeit, confiscated by the Ministry, and then passed on to me."

His politely skeptical expression told her exactly how much he cared for the Ministry's declarations and confiscations. "Be that as it may, Madame; I have yet to see that you can – or indeed will – assume complete responsibility for your assets. You have proved reluctant, in the past."

"That was in the past. And this is now. And _now, _I have come out of mourning, Griphook, and I am taking control of my life. I don't care if you approve of me or not, but you _will _give me control of my money and the Malfoy accounts –"

Griphook's superior expression slowly faded as Ginny refused to back down.

* * *

"How was it, dear?" Molly asked absently, her hands busy as she sorted through the clothes she'd just magicked off the line.

Ginny sighed and made herself a cup of tea. She'd flooed back to the Burrow straight after leaving Gringotts, under strict orders delivered by owl that morning. "A power struggle. But I got my way in the end."

"That's good. You don't want men thinking that they can control you through your pin money. It's best to look after such things yourself."

Five hundred million galleons, Ginny thought, was hardly pin money.

"My own father – Augustus Rookwood, you know – was a very old-fashioned man. He used to give my mother a quarterly allowance, and ring a terrible peal over her head if she exceeded it. When I married your father, Ginny, I made sure that I had complete control over the money I brought into the marriage…"

"I didn't know you had your own money, Mum," she said, genuinely surprised.

Molly raised her brows. "Of course I did, dear. We Rookwoods were hardly poor. But I'm afraid that, between seven children, it's been stretched rather thin."

"Oh. I didn't… I mean, of course I knew money was short, but…"

"Don't worry, Ginny. We're hardly destitute. And don't even think about offering us some of that money you just wrested away from Lucius."

Ginny choked on her tea.

"I may be old and motherly, but I'm not entirely a fool. I talked with Ron and Hermione last night. They were worried."

"I know. And I appreciate their concern –"

"But you'd rather consign our constant meddling to the Devil." Her mother smiled ruefully. "I know, Ginny. But be careful, in your mad dash for freedom, that you don't go to foolish lengths to prove your independence. Malfoy is entirely too perceptive; you should not have stayed with him for so long."

"I don't understand." Frowning, Ginny looked up, catching her mother's eyes. "What can he do? He can hardly drag me back to the Manor by my hair."

"No. I'm not talking about physical force, Ginny. Or even financial pressure. He's surrendered those two options – but Malfoy has always preferred more subtle means. Don't tell me you haven't seen it," Molly continued, as serious as Ginny had ever seen her. "He picks a victim – Fudge was a classic example – and works his charm on them. Until the very end, when the Death Eaters attacked the Ministry itself, Fudge maintained that Lucius was a pillar of the community. He was an intelligent, ambitious, even ruthless man, but where Lucius Malfoy was concerned, he was besotted."

Ginny winced. Lucius' charm – his wry, incisive intelligence, his lazy, crooked smile, those devastating moments when she saw Draco in his manner, in his laugh…

"I know that, intellectually," Molly tapped her forehead, "you know Lucius is a villain. But, Ginny, I don't think you understand it in here." She tapped her chest. "And no amount of knowledge in the world will help you if you don't _understand._"

Ginny wondered what her mother's reaction would be if she told her about Lucius' proposition. Molly Weasley would never, ever succumb to that smooth, silken voice and that cool logic; blunt, straightforward and completely down to earth, she would have no hesitation in vehemently refusing him.

"Mum –"

She stopped. Of course Lucius had been trying to ensnare her, alone and vulnerable in her grief and distraction. Of course she'd opened her very soul to him in their late night chats, where he studied her as thoroughly as Hermione had ever studied her books. That was where his expertise lay, after all – he knew (he _understood_) his victims, their hopes and desires, their sorrows and their secrets.

Ginny wanted Draco back, alive, and in her arms. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, laughing, arguing, and loving. She wanted to see beautiful, silver haired children who would not be snotty brats like their father had once been –

But Draco was dead.

And Lucius, understanding her far too well, had made his proposition…

* * *

Blaise made his way to Ginny's flat with sweating palms and a swift-beating heart. It was ridiculous: he'd fought a terrible, unending war, he'd seen all manner of cruelty and atrocity, and he knew that the age of chivalry and heroism was long dead, but he could not suppress the urge to rescue Ginny Malfoy. Perhaps it was the memory of her happiness at her wedding, juxtaposed against her ashen, grief-stricken face at Draco's funeral, or perhaps it was Lucius' cool, ironic voice as he denied he had any control over his daughter-in-law's actions –

Blaise had not made the mistake of believing him.

Whatever it was, it was powerful enough to see him here, flowers clutched tightly, rapping nervously on her door. When it swung open to reveal a sophisticated, stylish woman instead of the smiling/grieving bride/widow he remembered, he was taken aback.

But when she smiled joyfully and held out her hands to him, he recognized her at once.

"Blaise!" she laughed, reaching out to hug him and pull him inside. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," he answered, hugging her back for a moment, before handing over the flowers. They were a little wilted, victims of his nervous grip, but she laughed and led the way to the kitchen, looking for a vase.

"Violets, Blaise? They're lovely, but –" she turned and gave him an enchanting, mischievous smile, "you do know they make me sneeze terribly?"

Almost on cue, she frowned, her nose crinkled, and she went into a paroxysm of sneezing. Horrified, Blaise grabbed the bunch of flowers from her and wrenched the kitchen window open, tossing them out as quickly as he could. With the flowers gone and the fresh air blowing in through the window, the sneezes quickly subsided.

He handed her his monogrammed silk handkerchief, stammering incoherent apologies.

She only laughed. "No, no, it's all right." She sneezed again, one last time, her eyes watering, and blew her nose inelegantly. "A small allergy. I'm sure you have some kind of secret, embarrassing allergy, too." She smiled a little sadly. "Draco was allergic to pineapple."

"I know," he grinned. "We all got him drunk, one night at Hogwarts, and gave him a fruit cocktail two parts pineapple juice. He was covered in a red rash for days – there was nothing Madame Pomfrey could do for him." Remembering those reckless, innocent days, he laughed. "And as for me, well…"

She seized his arm, mock glaring at him. "I've told you my secret," she said, her eyes laughing. "Now spill yours."

"Ah. Well." He managed to look shamefaced. "Floo powder."

"Floo powder?" She went into peals of laughter. "You're allergic to floo powder? How do you ever manage?"

"Very inconveniently," he sighed. "It was even worse, before I earned my Apparition license."

With that, with his disastrous gift and her red eyes and nose, with the admission of one of his most embarrassing secrets and her delighted laughter, Blaise tumbled headlong past infatuation and into love.

"And now that I've shared my most terrible secret," he said, once he could breathe again, "you must take me out to dinner, Ginevra. I hear you're now indecently rich."

"You heard that? I only went to see Griphook this morning."

"Oh, the Ministry grapevine is humming, as is the Diagon Alley social circuit. They see it as final evidence you've escaped Lucius' clutches –"

The last remnants of the laughter faded. "Out of Malfoy's clutches, and dowered with his entire fortune. Are you stealing a march on them, Blaise?"

He stiffened. "I assure you," he said haughtily, "I have no need of a rich wife. I'm merely offering my services –" he held out his arms, offering everything he was, friend, man, wizard, Auror, aristocrat – "should you find yourself in need of a deterrent. Or even of an escort, or a friend; only say the words, Ginny."

She smiled, placed a white, delicate hand on his arm. "Thank you, Blaise. I will."

* * *

A/N – Feedback is greatly appreciated. Please tell me what you think. Can I just ask: how many readers actually want to see Ginny end up with Lucius? Or do you enjoy the cat and mouse game more?


	10. x

A/N – Unsurprisingly, Lucius wins hands down. I'm not sure, though, if Ginny will ever manage to find the same love she had with Draco.

Disclaimer – JKR et al own the canon characters and situations. I own the rest. Don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter 10 **

* * *

The restaurant was quiet, sophisticated, and out of the paparazzi's way; the food was exquisite, the ambience perfect, and the staff deferential and respectful. Blaise was charming, amusing, gentlemanly –

But it was not enough.

He recognised it, she thought, acknowledging their predicament with his rueful smile. He'd always been the perfect foil for Draco's sharp, dangerous brilliance, balancing and grounding him, but while Ginny had always appreciated his patience and understanding, he did not stir her.

He led her back to her apartment, and they stood in the doorway for a while, gazing awkwardly at each other.

Ginny spoke first. "I'm sorry, Blaise –"

But he cut her off. "No, it's all right, Ginny. I think I already knew." He laughed softly, took her hand. "I think we would be better off as friends and companions…"

Bending down, he kissed her fleetingly on the cheek and walked away.

* * *

It was lonely in her apartment, her luxurious bed cold and empty, and for the first time since Draco's death she missed the warmth of another body beside her. Not just for the heat and flash of passion, but the solid, physical warmth and reassurance of another heartbeat in the dark night.

Clutching her nightgown close around her, she stumbled out of bed and made her way to the hidden drinks cabinet. The anonymous Malfoy agents and servitors who had prepared the apartment for her arrival had stocked it with a full range of spirits; feeling reckless, she grabbed some firewhisky and drank straight from the bottle.

If she couldn't have real warmth, she'd have the illusion of it.

A good hour later, she was pleasantly dazed, a silly smile plastered on her face. She was humming to herself along with the song playing softly on the wireless, a Weird Sisters song that she and Draco had danced to, once, in a small interlude between flaring crises –

And then suddenly she was crying, tears leaking from her eyes, squeezed tightly shut against a sudden onslaught of grief, loneliness and desire.

* * *

She apparated into the Manor's entry hall with a loud crack, startling the dozing house elves. She was drunk enough, reckless enough, to scowl angrily at their wide eyes and discreetly averted eyes – why should they care if she chose to visit in her nightgown? It was certainly no business of theirs.

Storming through the richly furnished hallways, her temper driving her hard, she could feel eyes on her as she passed – servants, ghosts, paintings, all watching her and wondering just what she was doing here now, after she'd left vowing never to return.

But if she paused long enough to think on it herself, she knew she would talk herself out of it…

Lucius was in the conservatory, a small light hovering over his shoulder as he pottered about with Narcissa's more delicate plants and flowers. Surrounded by greenery and rich, fertile earth without any of his usual luxurious robes or trimmings, he looked so very different.

He looked up when she threw the door open, his brows raised.

"I went out with Blaise," she said abruptly, defiantly.

Slowly, he set down his battered watering pot and drew off his dirt-stained gloves. "Did you?" he asked, as he gestured and tossed the ball of light up to the roof, lighting the entire room. "And how was Mr. Zabini?"

"Courteous. Charming. Sophisticated."

He looked at her, those wry, dark silver eyes understanding.

"He walked me home and left me with a kiss on the cheek." Shivering, she drew her nightgown closer around her, her mouth set and stubborn. "I think he's in love with me."

"I know he is," Lucius said candidly. "You should marry him, Ginevra. He'll place you on a pedestal and give you everything you ever ask for…"

"But I don't want to be worshipped!" she shouted suddenly. She remembered Blaise's warm, gentle smile, his undemanding companionship and the adoration in his eyes; but that was not what she wanted. She wanted… she wanted…

She swallowed, the tears welling up and choking her. "I want Draco," she whispered. "I want to see silver hair and grey eyes moving over me. I want everything to be as it was… And if I can't have that," she looked at Lucius, "then I'll take the closest thing I can get."

Lucius froze. He looked up, and their eyes clashed. "Be very, very careful, Ginevra. I'm not in love with you."

"But you understand me," she insisted, her voice shaking. "You don't have me on a pedestal. You don't worship me, or cherish any false illusions –" Suddenly, she gripped the high neck of her nightgown and tugged. "I want to _feel _again, Lucius! It's been eighteen months since Draco's death. Let me have that illusion again."

"You'll close your eyes and think of Draco?"

"Don't tell me you'll be hurt," she drawled, bitter and sardonic. "You've been trying to push me into this for months. Well, congratulations – here I am. What will _you _give me, I wonder, if I give you what you want?"

He stared at her. Desperate, infuriated by his silence, she ripped again at her neckline, tearing it open this time, exposing pale flesh. "Well?" she demanded.

She watched his eyes, saw the calculation, the slow, gradual growth of masculine interest – and then the firm, confident determination as he came to some kind of conclusion.

Slowly, respectfully, he extended his hand towards her.

She took it.

* * *

Afterwards, as she lay beside him in his great bed, surrounded by his scent and warmth, and tried very hard to imagine that nothing had ever changed. Shameful or not, it was the closest she'd come to peace for months…

* * *

She woke in the morning alone, and was glad of it. Somehow, it was such an intimate thing, waking up with a man in the cold light of morning when the shadows and fantasy had vanished.

Feeling slightly soiled, she forced herself to rise from the bed, her eyes skittering away from her ripped nightdress, puddled on the floor by the doorway. Quickly she grabbed a set of his robes from the wardrobe and threw them on, not pausing to inhale his rich, exotic scent, and went down to breakfast.

He sat at the table, reading the Prophet as if the last night had never happened. "Good morning, Ginevra," he said, looking at her over his spectacles. "I didn't think to see you this morning."

She swallowed, forced her chin high. "I _was_ going to sneak away," she admitted. "But that wouldn't have done either of us any good." Abruptly, she sat down and poured herself some coffee. "I can't stay, though; I have to go to work."

He sighed, and tossed the newspaper down to the table. "You'll have to forgive me," he said ironically, "it's been a while since I've had to conduct such an affair."

"Well I've never had to conduct one," she sniped. "But you can be sure I won't tell _anyone_ about this." Frowning, she looked down at her hands. "My mother said that you would charm and enchant me into besottedness, like Fudge."

He snorted. "Your mother must think me some sort of Don Juan. I don't think you're in any danger of that, Ginevra."

"Nevertheless," she began uneasily –

"No. We each know what we want of the other – you want an illusion, for as long as you can force yourself to believe, and I want an heir. As long as you harbour no unreal expectations…" he trailed off. She shook her head. "Then we will deal well together."

* * *


End file.
